


still functioning

by Twice_before_Friday



Series: Altered & Extended - season 2 [3]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Bad Ideas, Episode: s02e03 Alma Mater, Fear, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic, Stand Alone, Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29109663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: It isn't long before his vision begins to tunnel, losing his peripheral vision to a blackness that slowly spreads and grows and strives to consume him completely. It's as the darkness expands that Malcolm suddenly and abruptly recognizes that he may actually die there.That Gil may not find him in time.
Series: Altered & Extended - season 2 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112852
Comments: 22
Kudos: 106





	still functioning

"What are you doing?" Louisa asks as Malcolm holds the scorching iron to the pages of the book. While she clearly thinks he's lost his mind, she still somehow manages to appear completely disinterested in the answer itself.

And in a way, he realizes, she is. She doesn't _actually_ care what he's doing. Doesn't care that she's condemned him to an almost certain death. He's nothing to her.

Fifteen years away from Remington Academy and nothing seems to have changed.

"There must be a fire suppression system in here. An alarm," Malcolm states, looking up to the ceiling and spotting the sensor and dispersion nozzles above him.

"Yeah." The _you're obviously an idiot_ remains unsaid but Malcolm hears it loud and clear, regardless. "It'll remove all the oxygen from the vault."

Casting a quick glance at Louisa, Malcolm stretches an arm up to hold the burning book to the smoke detector, ignoring the heat as the flames consume the pages and lick at his fingertips.

"Are you insane?" Louisa eyes him much like a dissection specimen in biology class. Like he's, perhaps, mildly fascinating (a slight improvement from his high school days), and like she wouldn't hesitate to slice him open just to see what makes him tick (a far more common reaction to his presence, unfortunately). It's...mildly off-putting, if he's honest with himself.

"Maybe," he says honestly. It's not as if he hasn't been wondering that himself lately.

It takes almost no time at all for the system to detect the smoke, the alarm chiming loudly and reverberating off the glass that surrounds him. Despite his outward calm — forced and painfully artificial — Malcolm's heart has been jackhammering behind his ribs since she first locked him in the tight space, the claustrophobia he usually tries so hard to conceal wrapping around his chest and squeezing with an iron grip. The shrieking alarm only makes it worse, his heart beating so fast he can feel it slamming against the walls of his chest.

Louisa casts him one last incredulous glance before she hurries away, turning her back and leaving him to asphyxiate without a second thought, and he can't help but wonder just how many other victims she's left in her wake. 

He doesn't have long to ponder that particular line of thought, though, as his attention snaps to the torrent of Argon/Nitrogen mixture that floods down from the ceiling, completely obscuring his vision in a matter of seconds, blocking Louisa from his view — and his mind — before she's stepped foot out of the library.

He slams the book shut with a muted thud and lets it drop to the floor, forgotten. The fire was almost instantaneously extinguished by the suppression agents, but Malcolm knows that the first-edition Marlowe is far beyond repair. 

Professor Delaney would be horrified.

Malcolm pushes down his panic and spins around to check on the man, but the movement nearly knocks him to the ground. When he decided to set off the alarm, he believed he was utilizing the best available option to bring help his way — and hopefully stall Louisa long enough for Gil to connect the dots and catch her before she could make a break for the nearest non-expedition country on her father's private jet — but he clearly didn't factor in just how quickly the oxygen would be sucked from the room.

It's been maybe a minute since he lit the fire, and already the air is thin and painfully difficult to breathe. He barely manages to catch himself on the edge of the desk as his body sways, holding tight as he lowers himself to the ground next to the Professor. As soon as his knees hit the floor, he's reaching out to check the man's pulse, finding it weak and thready, but there.

Not that it will matter much if help doesn't arrive soon.

 _Very_ soon.

Straightening up and giving his lungs as much room to expand in his chest as possible, Malcolm still finds it impossible to suck in even half a breath. The air that he manages to gulp down isn't satisfying, isn't delivering oxygen to his blood cells, and his body starts to rail at the sudden and unexpected oxygen deprivation.

He realizes far too late that he should have at least taken a deep breath before he lit the fire.

Looking around the room, frantically searching for something, _anything_ , he can use to get them out, he discovers that his brain is already losing function. It's getting hard to think straight, to follow his thoughts to their logical conclusion.

He tries to shake the fog away, to use his mind to free himself and the Professor before they run out of time completely, but he can't seem to think of a single option to escape. The room was designed to be locked tight, to keep the delicate books inside safe in an emergency. Unfortunately, keeping the books safe in this case includes eliminating _him_ as a threat.

It isn't long before his vision begins to tunnel, losing his peripheral vision to a blackness that slowly spreads and grows and strives to consume him completely. It's as the darkness expands that Malcolm suddenly and abruptly recognizes that he may actually die there.

That Gil may not find him in time.

The acute ache that blooms in his chest at the thought has nothing to do with his spasming lungs as they beg for air. He's been so focused on surviving lately that he's forgotten what it means to live, and now he may never have the chance again. 

He's surprised by just how much the idea hurts.

But he blinks hard against the hot tingle in the back of his eyes and forces himself to focus his attention elsewhere. Dwelling on something that's out of his hands isn't helping matters at all. He'll be damned if he dies without doing _something_ about it.

And so he does what he's always done best.

He works the case.

He grabs the damaged Marlowe book from the floor and rips out the flyleaf, then roots through the desk drawer for a pen. 

And he starts to write.

His penmanship is appalling, but he needs to write as quickly as possible because it feels like he's drowning in the middle of a goddamn library and he knows he doesn't have time to waste. His lungs are on fire, burning him from the inside out as he gasps for breath and finds nothing to inhale. He fights down the panic that bubbles up inside of him to finish his task; to explain why Louisa killed headmaster Brumback, to detail the cheating ring that Professor Delaney has been running for two decades, to tell Gil about the poisoned sandwich and how Louisa locked them in the room to die.

To say goodbye.

And to tell Gil he's sorry.

He sets the paper on the desk, tucking the edge of it beneath the plate, knowing Gil will find it there and bag it as evidence when the scene is finally processed. There's a tiny bit of relief, knowing that he's just helped to solve his own murder, but it's quickly consumed by the terror that refuses to be staved off any longer.

He faces the ceiling and drops his jaw, a silent scream for air, stretching out his throat as if that could somehow help deliver oxygen to his starving lungs, but there's none to be had and his lungs feel like they're going to combust and his chest fucking _hurts_ and he's so lost in the fear of dying like _this_ that he hardly notices the room tilt sideways, doesn't feel his body hit the ground.

He claws at his throat, at his chest, desperate for them to function the way they're meant to, the way biology demands, but it does little more than streak his throat with stinging red tracks as his nails scrape at the skin.

The blackness descends with a vengeance, the glass room shrinking and closing in on him and suddenly he's _there_ all over again. Trapped in that closet where he spent three damn days, alone and afraid and entombed with only his nightmares and hallucinations for company. And he was so damn afraid back then, afraid that he'd be left there forever, abandoned in a cell that was smaller than his father's ever was, like his sins had been so much worse.

He spent three days wondering if maybe he deserved it.

Three days slowly dying of dehydration, knowing that no one cared enough to even look for him. Three days with the Girl in the Box begging him to find her, only to be let down by him all over again.

Three days battling demons that were never his to begin with.

And all that fear comes rushing back now, only this time he can't scream at the walls to relieve the pressure that builds inside of him. Can't bang his fists against the door until his hands ache and bleed and he runs out of tears to cry. 

Because right now, there's no air left in his lungs to expel in a howl that will bounce through the halls unheeded. Right now, his muscles are locking up, contracting as they're deprived of the oxygen they need to function, leaving him curled up on the floor, useless and alone.

The panic only begins to ebb as he gradually loses his hold on consciousness, slipping into the dark as his body shuts down, one system at a time.

He has a fleeting thought that maybe it won't be so bad there, in the shadows, when a horrified shout breaks through the blaring alarms. It's loud enough that he drags his eyelids halfway open one last time. 

It doesn't even matter to Malcolm if it's another hallucination. Because finding Gil through the haze that's shrouding his vision is more than he ever could've hoped for. Gil's been his safe harbour since he was ten years old, and seeing him now lends him a serenity that he doesn't think he could have found on his own. 

But then Gil is drawing his gun, shouting something indistinct as he takes a few hurried steps back and raises his arms.

And that's not right. Despite being a cop for well over twenty years, Gil still hates to fire his weapon. It's a last resort, and one he's only called upon a handful of times. Right now, though, every line drawn heavy on his face, every muscle pulled taut throughout his rigid frame, clearly indicates that he's about to fire. And that doesn't sit well with Malcolm at all.

Something must be wrong.

Gil never looks quite that worried, Malcolm thinks, unless someone he loves is hurt or in danger. He had the same expression creasing his features during Jackie's final days, and it makes Malcolm's heart thud painfully in his chest to see it now (he's vaguely aware of the fact that his heart didn't really seem to be beating much at all before that, but he doesn't have the presence of mind to understand exactly what that means). His confused and groggy mind worries that something truly terrible must have happened, immediately spiraling into a vortex of increasingly terrifying suppositions. What if something happened to Dani? What if something happened with Tally and the baby?

He tries to push himself up, to crawl to Gil and make sure everything is okay, but all he manages to do is flop onto his stomach, his cheek pressed uncomfortably against the floor as a shot rings out, deafening, even as all the sounds in the world meld together and become indistinct. He thinks he hears the tinkle of broken glass, but then, maybe it's just the rain and he's not sure why it would be raining in the closet but he's so thirsty that it doesn't matter and he just wants to drink…

And then he's being hauled from the room, gulping in precious oxygen in heaving lungfuls that leave him retching and coughing at the sudden influx of air.

It takes several minutes to slow his breathing enough to feel the hand that's rubbing soothing circles over his back, to hear the whispered encouragements of _that's good, kid_ and _keep breathing for me_. It takes a moment longer to realize that he's sitting on the floor, his head resting limply against Gil's chest as his thoughts slowly clarify and the muddled confusion gives way to reality once again.

It takes all his strength to pull back from the unexpected comfort. 

Malcolm's words, when they come, are jagged and raw and feel like sandpaper scraping through his lungs and along his esophagus. "You came."

And more than anything, it's _that_ which reminds him that all of this is nothing like before. Because fifteen years ago, no one came looking for him. Today, he has a team.

"Yeah, kid. I came," Gil assures him quietly, sliding his hand to the back of Malcolm's neck to help keep him grounded. As Malcolm gets his bearings, he sees that Gil is kneeling on the ground next to him, his gun safely holstered once again, but there's still a haunted fear in his eyes that Malcolm vaguely recalls from only moments ago. Before he can assure Gil that there's nothing to worry about, however, Gil lightly reprimands, "You cut things kind of close there, Bright."

Closer than Malcolm cares to admit. He definitely miscalculated how much time it would take to suck the oxygen from the room.

But Gil doesn't need to know that.

"What? I timed it perfectly." Malcolm offers a small smile, but at Gil's glare, he hurries to change the subject. "Did you catch Louisa?"

Gil huffs, half-relieved and half-exasperated, a sound Malcolm has grown to expect over the last twenty years. "Yeah, we caught her."

The tension in Malcolm's muscles drains away, knowing everything that happened was not for nothing. The killer is in custody, which is really all that matters. The only question left is whether she managed to claim another victim before she was stopped. 

Professor Delaney.

As the last of Malcolm's mental fog clears, he becomes aware of a commotion maybe twenty feet away. He turns his head towards the urgent and hurried sounds, finding a couple of uniformed officers performing CPR on Professor Delaney.

"He's been poisoned," Malcolm calls over to the officers, the raspy quality of his voice improving as he continues to take deep, fulfilling breaths. He turns back to Gil as he explains, "Louisa prepared his sandwich. It's likely she would have used chloramine trihydrate, like she did with Headmaster Brumback."

Fortunately, a team of paramedics makes their way into the library as Malcolm speaks, moving promptly to Delaney's side and taking over from the officers, who gladly hand him over for professional care.

"Come on, Bright. Let's get you out to the ambulance," Gil says, shifting slightly as he prepares to stand. His movement's are halted by Malcolm's immediate protest.

"I don't need an ambulance," he says quickly, and after just a second of deliberation adds, "or a hospital. I'm fine."

Gil narrows his eyes, his gaze raking over Malcolm and looking decidedly unimpressed. "Kid, you're shaking like a leaf."

He hadn't actually noticed that, but now that Gil's pointed it out, he realizes that he is absolutely freezing. And yes, as Gil so helpfully established, his entire body is trembling with a fine shiver that seems to be emanating from deep in his bones.

"Just a chill. Nothing a cup of tea and a few minutes in the car with the heat on won't cure." He offers the most reassuring smile he can manage and, while Gil purses his lips and appears to be unhappy with the world in general and Malcolmin particular, Malcolm can pinpoint the exact moment he caves.

"Fine," Gil huffs, but then holds up a finger, telling Malcolm that there are caveats to that agreement. "But you're getting a cursory once-over by a medic. And that's non-negotiable."

Malcolm knows a losing battle when he sees it. He acquiesces with a sigh, allowing Gil to help him off the floor when his muscles tremble and threaten to send him sprawling right back down. Gil guides him to a nearby table, making sure Malcolm is steadily perched on its edge before turning to direct the officers in the room as to what needs to be done while they wait for yet another team to process the scene.

Waiting until Gil is facing away from him and deep in conversation with a uniformed officer, Malcolm discreetly — and with an alarmingly unsteady gait — slips back into the restoration room, sliding his note from beneath the plate to tuck into his pocket. 

It's not something he needs Gil to find anymore.

He's back at the table, leaning far more heavily on it than he's comfortable with, before Gil happens to look over to check on him. He meets the questioning look Gil shoots him with a reassuring smile, and Gil nods his understanding, trusting that Malcolm is still doing alright, before he heads over for an update on the paramedics' progress. They're already loading Professor Delaney onto a stretcher, but a second team of medics comes in just as the first is leaving the library.

Gil was obviously serious about having him looked over.

The paramedic that examines him is stubbornly adamant that he get checked out at the hospital, but Malcolm — the epitome of stubbornness itself — somehow convinces her to keep her voice down, and since Gil is on the other side of the library, that suggestion remains unheeded. He does, however, gratefully accept the blanket that she wraps around his shoulders as she finishes her examination, and even promises to seek medical attention if he has any difficulties breathing.

He figures it's a more than adequate compromise.

By the time Malcolm's been cleared (ish) and Gil has the investigation well underway, Malcolm is more than ready to get as far away from Remington Academy as possible. And if luck is on his side for once in his life, he hopes he'll never need to step foot on the property again.

The walk through the endless halls to get to the main entrance takes more out of Malcolm than he would have expected. He's exhausted. And so damn cold. He just wants to sit in Gil's car with the heat on full and warm up on the way back to the precinct.

He doesn't pay much attention to where they are in the school until he suddenly becomes painfully aware of _exactly_ what hallway they're standing in. He freezes, feet rooted to the spot as he turns his head to look at the closet at the end of the hall. 

Three days.

And there are times where he wonders if he ever _really_ got out. If he's still that scared kid, trapped in that damn closet.

That weekend altered his life irrevocably. It was while he was imprisoned in that tiny space that he truly understood he would never be free of his father's legacy. That he would spend every day of the rest of his life haunted by Martin Whitly.

"Hey," Gil's voice is quiet, warm. Everything Malcolm isn't as the memories rage inside of him. "Is that where…?"

Gil lets the words die off and fade away. Neither of them need him to finish the sentence. Malcolm confided in Gil back then — not about _everything_ , not about just how bad it had truly been in that closet, trapped in his mind — and ended up having to beg him to stay out of it when Gil seethed and ranted and threatened to arrest Nicky Covington for assault. 

So Gil knows, better than anyone, just how much damage those three days wreaked on both his body and his psyche. Knows enough that Malcolm doesn't bother trying to hide the way his hand trembles uncontrollably as he stares at his makeshift prison.

He has to swallow a few times before he can work up the nerve to answer. Even then, it's hardly more than a whisper. "Yeah." 

Gil's hand lands soft and reassuring on his shoulder, squeezing lightly over the blanket as Malcolm tugs it a little tighter around himself, shivering more now than he was in the library. The touch is grounding, reminding him that he got out long ago. "You okay?"

There's no good answer to that question. Everything Martin did, his weekend in that closet, his time with John Watkins, everything that happened with Ainsley and Endicott…they're not just single traumas that can be held separately in his mind. They build and compound and threaten to crush him every minute of every day.

Another near miss with death today just adds to the burden he's been forced to shoulder for so long. Eventually, he knows, it will all be too much. Eventually, it will destroy him.

But today is not that day.

"I'm fine," he says, walking away from that godforsaken closet. Away from a past he wishes he could just forget.

They both know it's a lie.

He's not fine, but he's still functioning. And for now, that's enough. It _has_ to be enough. Because there really isn't any other alternative. 

There are murders to solve, babies to meet, family to protect.

And he plans to be around for all of it.


End file.
